The Rise of the Last Dragonborn
by The Ghost of King Endercreeper
Summary: Kaarstun faal Konahrik, The Last Dragonborn, was the greatest hero Nirn has ever seen. He completed his destiny, destroying Alduin and "keeping evil forever at bay". But did his story really end there? A tale of heroism and villainy, of wars and peace. Throughout the violent chaos that is Tamriel, one man rises to bring a new order to the world: the DOVAHKIIN.
1. The Legend

Long ago, in the ancient days when men and mer fought for supremacy and dragons ruled the skies as gods, a Doom-driven hero of the dragonblood rose from the ashes of war-torn Skyrim to save this world.

 **Alduin** the World-Eater, the terrible lord of the Dov, at long last escaped from his prison amongst the currents of time. The gods foresaw the utter destruction he would unleash, so they plucked an ordinary mortal from the world below and blessed him, breathing a dragon's soul into his mouth and filling his veins with the dragonblood.

The hero ventured across Skyrim, performing mighty deeds and quickly becoming a person of great import in the eyes of the people. Under the tutelage of the Greybeards, wise monks versed in the Way of the Voice, his mastery of the Thu'um grew daily, and the earth trembled beneath his feet.

He was given many names as he continued in his quest to protect the world from filth and evil: Ysimr (which is, being interpreted, Dragon of the North), Dragonslayer, Dawns' Champion, Crusader, the Merciful. But by one title and one title only was he known by the gods: **DOVAHKIIN** , the Last Dragonborn.

Alduin, the great coward, recognized a foe that could finally defeat him, so he fled before the Voice of the Dovahkiin. Twice did Alduin try to destroy him, but neither him nor his servants prevailed against the unrelenting force of their enemy's Voice.

Alduin soon came to deathly fear the Dovahkiin, and focused all of his efforts on destroying him. On their third encounter, they did mighty battle at the summit of Monahven, among the snow and howling winds. Against all odds, the Dovahkiin prevailed, his sword sharper than Alduin's claws. The Dark Lord fell, defeated, but not destroyed. For Alduin was no ordinary dragon, if any dragon could be called ordinary in those days. He was a god, the firstborn of Akatosh himself, created for the sole purpose of devouring worlds. With a taunt from behind slashed lips, he fled, crawling back into Sovngarde where he had made his putrid den. He lurked in the mountain passes, licking his wounds and feasting on the souls of the dead to regain his strength.

The Dovahkiin, immovable in his destined course, could not let the vile wyrm escape. He captured one of Alduin's most trusted lieutenants, a mighty warrior dovah, and persuaded him to take him to Skuldafn, a hidden dragon temple high in the mountains where the entrance to Sovngarde lay. He slew the undead slaves that guarded the place, along with their master, Vengeance.

In Sovngarde, by the power of his mighty Thu'um and the assistance of the Nords of old, he slew Alduin. The cowardly king tried to hide in enchanted mists of his own making, but they could not stand before the Dovahkiin's roar.

With Alduin gone, the order of the dragons lacked a leader. The wisest dov, the ones who could put aside their arrogance enough to recognize the Dovahkiin's power, bowed before the might of his Voice.

Even though his primary mission had been completed, the Dovahkiin knew that he still had much to do for a crumbling Tamriel. He and his followers crusaded bravely throughout Tamriel, ridding the land of many of the evils that plagued it. Barrows were cleared, Covens burned, caves cleansed. Much darkness lurked beneath the surface of the world, and it was upon such darkness that the Last Dragonborn's forces warred. With more and more dragons at his command, and powerful magical artifacts at his disposal, he sought to bring peace to a chaotic, death-loving world.

For years he toiled, bringing light into every dark crevice he came across. Veritable armies of follwers, admirers, and explorers follwed him and contributed in the work, and much land became cleansed.

The Dovahkiin rose in power, from a thane, to a lord, to a jarl. The people of Skyrim, by whom he was beloved by all, made him High King when the terrible Stormcloak Civil War had ended. It was then that he brought his subjects, joore and dov, together. There was a great council, at the summit of Monahven, at the very place where the respect the other dov had for Alduin died. There, the first peace between mortal and dragon was formed. But it was not to last.

One of the Dovahkiin's most trusted lieutenants among the dov, a sly and cunning fighter, desired power over the joore, as the dov had wielded long ago in the most ancient of days. He believed that the dov were above all other creatures of Nirn, and sought to rule as his eldest brother, Alduin, had.

He took a great following of dragons and men with him, and together they rebelled against the Dovahkiin and his kingdom.

A great war ensued, greater even then man's first war of freedom from the dov. It was savage and heartrending, dragon against dragon, brother against brother. The slaughter was so great that even the Dovahkiin, the mightiest warrior ever to walk the earth, began to fear that even victory would leave the world in an irreparable state of ruin. When the war started to shift towards the traitors, however, the Empire of the Medes, a close ally of the Dragonborn, sent aid, as did the great nations of Morrowind and Hammerfell. Their warriors were mighty, and the war raged on.

After five grisly years, most of the dov were slain, and legions upon legions of men with them. The two sides remained almost perfectly matched, but the traitors saw that they soon would fall and vowed, as murderers do, to drag as many warriors down as possible to their doom with them.

At the final battle, a-last ditch attempt from the traitors to gain control of Skyrim, the balance tipped in favor of the rebels. All of the forces of both sides flocked to battle, sensing that there struggle would soon end, one way or the other. The forces of the Dovahkiin and his forces were cruelly put down, and put on the edge of terrible defeat. Just as the ancient city of Solitude was about to be razed to the ground, and the gods looked on in fear, The Dovahkiin summoned **Akatosh** himself, God of Time and Father of all the dov.

His power was unlimited, and he struck down the forces of the enemy, burning them with the very fire of the sun. The evil forces were put down at once, and Akatosh gave his sons their just rewards.

He cursed all of the dov who had rebelled, weakening and shrinking them into reduced, mortal beings. They rode the currents of Time no longer, and they became weak as unto mortal men, easily killed by any skilled enough.

But, to those dov who had stayed loyal to the Dovahkiin, his youngest and chosen son, he gave a choice:

They could continue to live on Nirn and until the End Times as the last of the true dov, or they could come and dwell with him once more in Aetherius.

All went with him, save three-

 **Paarthurnax** , the wisest and eldest living of the dov

 **Odahviing** , the fierce, bloodscaled champion of the Dovahkiin

and **Mirmulnir** , the mournful undead warrior.

Before Akatosh departed with his sons, he placed fifty of his newest- and final- creations, down on Nirn: The female dov.

The Fallen mortal dov had been given one compensation for their fall- the gift of continuing through their sons and daughters, and passing on their knowledge and power to new generations.

After Akatosh departed, the traitorous dovah was brought forth, weak and humiliated. Akatosh had not turned him, but that was only so the Last Dragonborn could extract the proper punishment upon his head. The Dovahkiin was a man of mercy, and yet this sad, twisted, and unhappy being had commited crimes that could not be pardoned.

The Dovahkiin destroyed him, and devoured his soul, and his name has been lost to the ages forever.

The remaining dov pledged themselves once more to the Dovahkiin, humbled and fragile. The Dovahkiin promptly forgave them, on the grounds that they would serve him and his descendants and spend all their days in peace with the other races of the world, unless in dire need. They gladly and gratefully agreed.

Skyrim was a happy land in those days, though the absence of sons, daughters, mothers, and fathers throughout much of the continent still stung the hearts of the people.

The order of the **Kalzinkril** (which, being interpreted, is brave and honorable guardians) was established then. The land, while saved, was still in dire need of help. The Kalzinkril, servants of the Dovahkiin, were not just mighty warriors, but also generous benefactors. There were many widows and orphans in those days, and men, mer, beastfolk, and dragons worked together to rebuild what had been damaged.

This season of rest was over far too, soon, however.

For the Aldmeri Dominion, the evil government of the High Elves of the Summerset Isles, had been watching and waiting, marshalling their forces for the time after the Dragon Rebellion. They knew the Empire of the Medes, their most hated enemies and rivals, would be crippled after such a long and bloody war.

When their forces had been deemed of suitable strength, the elves attacked. The Altmer were shrewd and clever, and had great mastery over magic. They were strong, and cunning. They had the strength of the Bosmer and Khajiit peoples, who they had conquered long before.

Their first pushes into enemy territory were all but unchallenged. The border guard, at minimum strength due to the scarcity of good soldiers, was easily overpowered. By the time the Medes had realized what was going on, much of southern Cyrodiil had already been lost.

What followed would be known as the Second Great War, the terrible sequel to the last culmination of elven and human enmity.

The weakened Empire was no match for the Dominion, and rapidly began to crumble. The Thalmor took town after town, city after city. The Imperial soldiers, for all their courage, were crushed underfoot as the terrible elven army marched ever closer.

The Empire summoned a mighty host, the greatest army that it still had, to protect the capital, the Imperial City. The Thalmor marched straight for it, and the two clashed right at the gates.

The Battle was long, and thousands died on both sides. But when the dust cleared, the outcome became clear as well.

Just hours before the elves overran the city, the Emperor, Titus Mede II, had sent his fastest messenger to Skyrim, to beg for aid from the Dovahkiin. He also requested. In the event of his death, that his good friend do his best to avenge him.

That was the last letter the Emperor ever wrote. When the elves reached his quarters, they cast him from the highest room of the White-Gold Tower. The last remnant of the Septim Empire died with him.

The Dominion then sought to enter Skyrim. With the defeat of the Last Dragonborn and his kingdom, they could finally move to conquer all of Tamriel, and establish an Empire of elven superiority to rule the world forever.

But they learned too late, as all of his enemies did, that arrogance is a poor weapon to wield against a dragon in man's flesh.

The elves entered Skyrim, passing through the narrow passes and blizzards of the Jerall Mountains. They scoffed at the lack of resistance, assuming that the brutish Nords would fall to their blades as easily as their Imperial cousins to the south. They marched carelessly through what they perceived as a desolate, frozen wasteland, for Skyrim was in the throes of winter. But they did not watch the skies, nor did they watch their backs.

When they had finally all assimilated past the mountains, the Doom-drum began beating. The Kalzinkril sprung from their caves and gorges back in the mountains, cutting off the elves' retreat. The dov, recognizing the true need, leapt from their lofty perches and rained death upon them. And, below, the Sons and Daughters of Skyrim came out from their hiding places behind the southern hills and charged, courage beating in their hearts. They had learned from the suffering of the Dragon rebellion, and they were ready.

It was a relatively short war. The Thalmor forces were decimated, and Skyrim's counterattack began at once. The Nords and Altmer fought for control, and at one point only the miraculous aid of the reclusive Argonians prevented the enraged Thalmor from winning.

Finally, after a year and a half, the elves were pushed back to their homeland of Summerset, where they were overthrown by a joined force of the Dovahkiin's invaders and dissidents from their own country. The Altmer had long chafed under the selfish and cruel rule of the Thalmor, and they had been waiting for just such an opportunity as this. Finally, the war was ended.

Thus began the Golden Age of Tamriel.

There was much confusion at first, since the Empire was gone and much of Tamriel was now without a government. Many new leaders were trying to rise up, claiming ownership of as much territory as they dared. Banditry, thieving, murdering, and many other foul practices, which had gone on almost unchecked by the occupied Kalzinkril during the war, ran rampant everywhere. Monsters were starting to crawl from their dank hiding places once again, and the people were full of anxiety and fear over what was to come. The Dovahkiin, although he was more than content with ruling Skyrim, recognized the need for and benefits of a strong, united government. Cyrodiil, along with Elsweyr, Valenwood, High Rock, Hammerfell, and Summerset, were essentially under impermanent military occupation. Clearly, someone had to bring order to these places, and even unite them, if possible. The Dovahkiin was not one for conquest, and yet the makings of a new empire lay at his feet.

He was crowned Kaarstun faal Konahriik (which is, being interpreted, the Warlord), Emperor of Tamriel. With nearly all of Tamriel under his leadership, a great new order began, and justice and order as had never before been seen in all of the days of Nirn began to creep slowly into the eight corners of the world. Together, with his queen of many years, the wise and loving Anekke, his brave sons and daughters, his friends old and new, and his numberless followers, peace was brought to the land.

With the Dovahkiin and his Kalzinkril as the guardians of truth and right, the people of Tamriel began to enjoy an unparalleled age of knowledge, power, and serenity. Nirn's beasts were, for the most part, either driven to extinction or forced to parts of the land where no Men, Mer, Beastfolk, or Dov lived. The Daedra were shunned and hated, except for Meridia and Azura, who had no quarrel with the freedom of the people from Daedric bondage. The more intelligent of the savage races, such as goblins and the corrupted of the Falmer, were either bargained with and given lands for their inheritance in exchange for various things or killed as well.

Dungeons were purged, darkness purified, and the scars of the long Age of Fear over the land began to fade.

A thousand years passed. Then another. Many new and terrible conflicts arose, but the Dragonborn and his descendants were always there to make things right again. His stories became celebrated legends, tales of yore, bedtime stories to be handed down from fathers to sons. They surely would have been corrupted and embellished if not for the long memories and sharp tongues of the Elder Dov.

But the forces of darkness would not be so completely subdued. Unbeknownst to the fair people of Tamriel's empire, evil was brewing, and gathering in secret places. From the bowels of the earth, darkness, long forgotten, began to rise again. The Divines felt the tremblings, and wept, for they knew of the calamities that were to come.


	2. The Assist

…

-Da?

-Yeah?

-Did you really see the Dragonborn?

-Aye, son, I saw 'im once. Long ago.

-Can you tell me 'bout it?

-You've heard the story a hundred times already.

-Not from you, Da. Only from uncle Groggin. And he's always drunk and weepy when he tells it, goin' on about all his dead friends.

-They were my friends too...

-Please?

-You haven't gone out to look for that chicken yet. I heard Ma tellin' ya to go find 'er this mornin'.

-I already found it. The dog was chewin' on it under the porch. He killed it, I say.

-Yer Ma said that it was just a couple of old bones from a chicken dinner.

-She don' know, Da. Risker's been trying to get at the chickens since we got 'im from Mirra's family.

-Hey, now. Yer mother's always right, e'en when she's not. Important lesson to learn. Took _me_ long enough.

-Yes, Da.

-Y'know, though, now that you mention it, the Kalzinkril don' come round into the highlands 'round here much anymore. Figure the dragons'll take care of stuff like trolls and stuff, bein' so close. Back in the old days, the trolls'd come down from their caves and eat yer livestock. If you'er lucky, that is. They might choose to eat _ya_ instead...

-Da...

-Sorry, sorry, son, I know. I know you don' like it when I talk about monsters.

-No, no, I meant... please tell me the story.

-I didn't mean to scare ya...

-Da.

-Alright, alright. Fine.

…

-Twas late in the afternoon, on the dark, cloudy day before the battle o' Solitude, that I saw 'im. We'd been fighting for hours- men, good Nords, died around me. My squad and me, our hearts were filled with sorrow and anger at the loss of our captain, but we pressed on, and the elven front began to crumble.

-Front?

-Er, their group of soldiers. The smaller army that was a part of the big army.

-Oh.

-Anyways, the front began to crumble under our furious attack. We pursued 'em doggedly, we did. I was just about to cleave an elven-helmeted head from my opponents shoulders...

-Cool.

-...when I felt a blinding agony in my side, and I found myself tumbling through the air and landing hard on the rocky mountain dirt. Through my pain, I saw the one that had struck me- A Thalmor wizard, hood over his long, ugly face, cloaked in shadowy robes. I remember the way the fire trembled in his hands, lookin' like it was trying to find its way out and eat at me some more. He looked at me with one of those creepy elven smiles- I've heard that elves don' show emotions on their faces- in their eyes or somethin' stupid like that- and that they make expressions like ours to unnerve us. After that day, I believed it.

I struggled to my feet, favoring the scorched mess of flesh n' metal that was my breastplate.

-Were you hurt real bad, Da?

-Oh, yeah. I doubt I would've made it had the Dragonborn not been there.

-He fixed you?

-Hey, now. Shh. We haven't gotten to that part yet.

-Sorry.

-Now, I tried not to look at the wound- I didn't dare- 'cause I couldn't afford to pass out. I reached for my sword and my shield, but to my surprise I couldn't find the shield. I found it later, though. It must have been flung way far away from me when I went flying.

The Thalmor started eagerly towards me, readying another fireball. He knew that without my shield to protect me, I was easy pickin's. I knew that I wasn't goin' ta make, so I did what any good Nord would do- I rushed 'im, bellowing at the top o' my lungs. I figured that if I took him down with me, I might have better chances o' gettin' on to Sovngarde.

In the blink of an eye, I was on the ground again. Someone had pushed me. Before me, clad in a suit of gleaming dragonbone, was the Dragonborn. He was huge, and tall, even for a Nord. He held a massive shield, which he used to block the fireball that had been about to finish me off, and then he charged at the sorry elf, faster than I've ever seen one of his size go, before or since. The knife-eared son-of-a-horker barely had time to flinch in terror before _Dovahsos_ was in his chest.

-You really saw his sword?

-You better believe it.

-What did it look like?

-Well, y'know, I didn't get a great look at it, seeing as most of it was already buried inside the wizard's chest, but it looked pretty shiny. Dragonbone too, I believe.

-Just like the stories?

-Just like the stories. It was enchanted, too- I remember how the elf burst aflame when he got stabbed. Taste of his own medicine, eh?

-Wow! How did Groggin never mention that?

-Because he's an idiot. A lovable idiot, sure, but an idiot. Why he saves all his best stories to when he's on the verge of passin' out is beyond me.

-Keep going!

-Alright, alright!

So, er, where was I... Lets s- oh right.

With a brisk yank, The Dragonborn unsheathed his blade from the Thalmor and let his toasted body fall limply to the ground.

With a jerk, he hurried quickly back towards me. I wasn't thinkin' too clearly at that point, but I remember how his helmet, mask, whatever, had these big old horns that threw shade over my eyes. It was clearin' up a little by then.

I held out an arm, too weak even to thank him, tryin' to tell him that I was gonna plan a feast for when he finally joined us in Sovngarde (not too soon, I hoped). He didn't really say anything, just gripped my hand hard and yanked me to my feet. The golden glow o' restoration magic flowed through my body, and I felt my wounds heal and smooth over with new skin, which luckily stopped me from screamin' at the feeling of being torn in two when he dragged me up.

"Go get your shield, friend," he said, "we're not done yet." That's all he ever said to me. And before I could say anything, he was gone, charging back into the fray with a Shout that nearly burst my eardrums. He ran into the fleeing mass of soldiers, hackin' and slashin'. And I never saw him again

-He was alright though, right?

-O' course he was. He's the Dragonborn.


	3. The Falmer

The tundras now are empty

The mountaintops are bare

The alabaster cities' gleam

Is not but shattered glare.

Their temples are deserted

Their humble priests are dead

Their villages and forts of old

Are known by what is said.

Men and Elves fight over land

While horror lurks below

In caverns old and fortresses

Beneath the ice and snow.

In darkest depths of Mundus

The Twisted weep and rage

And curse the names of Dwemer gone

Within their joyless cage.

The dwarven halls have darkened

In dust and rot they've lain

But deep within the poisoned earth

Proof of their crimes remain.

The Snow Elves lived in safety

Their homes and halls were great

But stirred within the hearts of Men

Fear, jealousy, and hate.

The Nords desired Skyrim

The birthplace of all men

But did not deem to let their home

Remain an elven den.

The conflict came to bloodshed

Great cities sacked and burned

The Nords and Elves both suffered much

And each the other spurned.

For years went on the conquest

Companions fell and bled

But, sensing that their doom was near

The elves were filled with dread.

At length the elves were vanquished

Their towers toppled down

And Ysgramor the Merciless

Bestowed on Men their crown.

The Falmer had been shattered

Their power was no more

Survivors fled invaders wrath

And knocked on Dwemer doors.

The Deep Elves, oh so crafty

With faces carved from ice

They welcomed in their brethren

But at a ghastly price.

By Arch-Curate Gelebor, _The Fallen Falmer_ (written 4E 217)

Of all the elven races, the people that has survived the most hardship has unquestionably been the Snow Elves, or _Falmer_ , in Aldmeris. These resilient, snow-resistant mer have one of the most convoluted and dark histories of all the known mortal races, surviving millennia of war, degradation, torture, and darkness. However, theirs is also one of the most inspiring stories known to Tamriel, one of redemption, and mastery of self. In this chapter, you will learn everything you need to know about this reclusive people, in order to not only learn to appreciate another culture, but to also know what to not bring up at the dinner table!

 **Appearance**

Like the Khajiit or Argonians, there are multiple variations of the Falmer, but for very different reasons. There are two known varieties of Snow Elf- the surface-dwelling race of Altmer-like elves that most commonly identify themselves as "the Snow Elves" of "the Mountain-Dwellers", and the cave-dwelling race of people that most commonly identify themselves as "the Joranmer" (Betrayed Elves), "Frükrik" (essentially "Falmer" in their native language, which is derived from Aldmeris), or "the Falmer", on occasion (they are often called "the Betrayed" by the Snow Elves themselves)

The Snow Elves are very similar in appearance to their close relatives, the Altmer. They possess angular features, including long, knife-like ears, pronounced cheekbones, and generally sport a lean, muscular physique. Like the Altmer, they can grow to impressive heights, around 7 and a half feet on average. Their skin and hair, which most clearly sets them apart from other elves, is a pure white, with occasional hints of glacial blue.

The Joranmer are easily distinguished from their counterparts. Thousands of years trapped underground, along with cruel torture and mutilation at the hands of the Dwemer, has deformed their bodies to the point that one can almost not guess at their elven heritage. They are eyeless, with large nostrils and ears to help them make their way around. Their skin is much darker than that of the mountain-dwellers, closer to that of an Imperial or Bosmer, and they are known for having long, wiry arms. One might assume, by their sharp teeth and nails, that they are little more than large, blind goblins, but in actuality they are much more similar in intelligence and articulation to the other Falmer. They are usually around 6 feet tall, but they generally hunch over closer to 5 and a half.

 **Religion**

Although several tribes of Falmer are still known to ascribe to the primitive, ritualistic faith that was developed underground during the long years of imprisonment, most Falmer today, of both sub-races, practice the ancient religion of their forefathers. Their primary deity is Auri-El, the Snow Elf incarnation of Akatosh, but they are also known to revere and pray to Trinimac, Syrabane, Jephre, and Phynaster. The Falmer believe in purifying oneself of worldly taint, and becoming closer to the gods, through a lifetime of worship and self-improvement. They do this by making pilgrimages to certain locations considered holy to them, most notably the ancient Temple of Auri-El and surrounding Forgotten Vale, and building monuments to their gods.

The Falmer also preach the idea of forgetting ones' grievances against yourself, and looking within at your own faults in order to improve. This attitude of forgiveness can be traced all the way back to the Falmer Revival, when the Ysmiran Empire helped to enlighten and make peace with the Joranmer and helped to reestablish the Snow Elves in Skyrim. The Falmer have many old enemies, most notably the Nords, the descendants of the ancient Atmorans that nearly drove them to extinction, and the Dwemer, who enslaved and deformed the majority of Falmer from their previous state. Under guidance from their religious leaders, and influenced by the teachings of Kaarstun faal Kohnariik, the Falmer were taught not to bear a grudge against their old foes for causing them so much suffering. The powers that fought with them and made them suffer so long ago are dead and gone, and harboring resentment towards the dead will only bring grief and more violence. However, this doctrine is still amongst the most volatile of the Falmer religion. Many Snow Elves and Joranmer go on pilgrimages for the express purpose of gaining belief in this doctrine, and struggle with prejudice towards others all their lives. Even the influential Arch-Curate Gelebor, the purported father of the new Falmer civilization, harbored a grudge against the enemies that he and very few other Falmer had escaped from unscathed. The above poem, of which he is the author, is a somewhat biased account of what he called "the unfortunate series of events leading to the ages-long scourge of our race."

 **Culture**

Although they are mainly one on the subject of religion, the two sub-races of Falmer have developed very different cultural practices due to their long separation and isolation.

The Snow Elves have a rigid, authority-driven society. Like the Altmer, they appreciate grandness and great scope, but also possess a certain distance of self in everything they do. The exterior and outer appearance is what they put the most effort into, with beautiful, graceful architecture, intricately detailed clothing and armor, and calm, apparently emotionless demeanors. This practice of isolation is less pronounced in some areas, and more in others. Due to the principals of their religion, they are usually somewhat more open and friendlier to others than the Altmer, but in contrast, they prefer to live in isolated, mostly self-contained mountain settlements, far away from other people. Like other peoples, Snow Elves are hard to know, but good and loyal once they have accepted you.

The Joranmer are significantly less strict. They live in large, familial clans, which conform to the appointed leader from all the clans in the area in order to provide some structure and stability to their way of life. Joranmer are most commonly farmers or nomadic herders, and they now can be found both above and below ground. Like the Snow Elves, they prefer seclusion, but unlike them they are known to be very shy. They know that most other races consider them hideous, and as a result you will rarely see Falmer roaming abroad. They prefer secluded mountain passes and valleys, and are often nocturnal due to their continued dislike of sunlight. Since there is little adherence to rank or status, excepting the locally appointed leader, the Joranmer elders and young alike work together, side by side, to accomplish their goals. Their philosophy is one of simplicity, and hard work. Anyone privileged enough to be accepted by a clan of these Betrayed Elves will see in ample evidence how industrious they are. Their settlements, be they temporary tent-villages or intricate farming compounds, are often large and sprawling, and usually are at least partially underground due to the skill and speed of their inhabitants in the way of excavation. Many of them, as of the writing of this issue, are moving closer and closer towards other civilized places, and they are trading more and more with other places outside their own trade network.

 **In Conclusion**

-Don't mention The Dwemer, Atmorans, or basically anything about their past that happened more than 2,000 years ago. Also don't mention their monstrous appearance (if they are Joranmer), or their religion, if you want them to like you.

-Do compliment them on their herds or fields (whatever they may be composed of) and their buildings and trade. Be polite and respectful, and remember that they probably know the racial slurs people use on _you_ as well.

* * *

The above section is quoted from "The Traveler's Guide to Tamriel", by Quentus Maxweil.


End file.
